A Bird and her Dog
by ShigeSato
Summary: Nobody could ever want a monster like him, let alone his little bird. "I've told you before, girl, I'm no knight and I don't want to be treated like one. Keep your damned kisses. You tempt a dog and he'll bite."
1. Chapter 1

_Stop staring, dog,_ he told himself sternly. _You'll scare her._

He turned his gaze instead towards the boy king on the Iron Throne. Today it was the scene of one of his ridiculous sentences, and the Hound saw his cruel lips curve into a grin as he watched Ser Meryn decapitate another poor peasant who had had the nerve to disturb his king. He had to hold back from gripping his sword as the man's body was dragged away. It was a pointless and stupid death. And what was worse, Joffrey forced the women to watch – the ladies of court, the Queen Regent, and his betrothed. Surely Cersei must see that this is madness.

He held back a snort at his own stupidity. Cersei couldn't stop Joffrey if she wanted to, or she'd find her own head on a spike soon enough. The boy was out of control. He needed a sword between his own ribs, and then perhaps he'd reconsider his attitude. No lady should have to witness this. Especially not the little bird.

Unbidden, his eyes were drawn back to her, sitting stoically beside Joffrey, eyes glazed over as she pretended to watch. She knew it would mean punishments if she looked away, and so she acted the good little bird, while inside he could tell she was holding back the wolf that wanted to burst forth. He was a dog, and he could sense it within her.

She felt his gaze upon her, and turned a fraction to glance back at him. The expression of fear in her face was more than he could bear. He grunted and looked away from her beauty, unwilling to read in her face how much he disgusted her. He was used to that reaction from most women, but the little bird was trained to show courtesy at all times. And even she couldn't mask her horror at his scars. He didn't need a reminder of how hideous he was.

_It's your own fault for looking at her, dog, _he sneered at himself.

He couldn't help himself, though. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and though she was so innocent and naïve, he could tell by instinct that she was as hardy and brave as any Stark – as any direwolf should be. The cruel, idiot king didn't deserve her. In his opinion nobody ever would, but she ought to have better than him, the bastard king who would order his guards to beat her. If he ever tried to make him raise a hand to her, Joffrey would face the rage of his own Hound. Meryn and Boros might do his bidding willingly enough, but he would never hurt the little bird.

Mercifully, Joffrey's pathetic form of bloodlust seemed to be sated for the day, as he clicked his fingers, dismissing the last of the peasants. They scurried out of the hall as fast as they could run, and the Hound didn't blame them.

"Did you enjoy that?" Joffrey asked Sansa, the smirk never leaving his mouth.

"They deserved to die, Your Grace," Sansa replied dutifully in that high, chirping voice of hers. "They were traitors to the Crown."

_Such a well-trained little bird._

"Yes. Just like your father and brother. I'll have their heads too, and I'll make you watch every moment to make sure you know what happens to traitors." Joffrey was trying to goad her into a reaction, but she held firm.

"They deserve every punishment, Your Grace," she answered, looking at the floor.

"Dog," Joffrey commanded. The Hound turned to face him. "Escort the lady back to her chambers. She is tired."

The Hound grunted noncommittally. Sansa stood, curtseying dutifully to Joffrey, and followed him out of the throne room. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw her visibly shaking. "You don't have to fear me, girl," he couldn't refrain from saying.

"It's not you I'm scared of," she replied quickly. Too quickly. He grunted and said nothing else for the remainder of the walk.

_Don't try and talk to her,_ he told himself, _she's not interested in a Hound like you. You're not fit to converse with fine ladies._

They reached her room, and the Hound bowed and turned to leave. The scent of her perfume filled his nostrils, aromatic and somehow just _Sansa_, and he felt his breeches grow tighter. _Gods be damned, I'll have to sort that out later._

"Hound," the timid voice behind him made him stop. He didn't turn to look at her. "Thank you."

"What for, girl?" he asked, still not turning. He didn't want her to see his face, his ugly scars. She saw enough ugliness every day in this thrice-damned city.

"You've never beaten me. You take me back to my rooms and you don't hurt me, or taunt me, or make me cry." The tone of her voice made him turn to her; he couldn't help himself. He didn't look at her face – he didn't want to see her expression when she looked at his scars. "You may not be a knight, but you're the most honourable man in this keep."

"I've told you before, little bird," he snapped, "I have no honour. I'm a dirty, angry dog and I don't pretend to be anything else. No fancy 'Sers'. I drink, I kill and I do what I'm told. No more and no less. Men aren't gallant like in your pretty songs."

"Knights aren't," she agreed. "But I believe you are. Underneath the Hound, Sandor Clegane still exists, and he's the man who wouldn't lay a hand on me. And for that, he has my thanks."

"Believe what you like, little bird," he sneered. "I'm just a dog." _A dog that wants to make her his bitch. Would she still think you're honourable if she knew you wanted to fuck her?_

He felt a hand on his chin, and startled, let her lift his gaze from the floor to her face. She didn't shrink back from his scars or flinch away from the intense stare. Fuck, now he was _trying_ to frighten her, so she would let him go, so he wouldn't be forced to look at those beautiful Tully blue eyes for a moment longer, as he felt the hardness in his trousers become unbearable.

"Don't let Joffrey break you, too," she said, and with that let him go and quickly entered her room. He sighed, a long, ragged breath and leaned against the wall. He had been a second away from taking her, king be damned, and making her his.

_She wouldn't think you were so noble if you were rutting her into the ground, dog, while she screamed._

He had to let those thoughts go. She would never want him – the king's Hound, the beaten and scarred servant he was. She deserved a lordling or a knight, someone who could give her a castle and a title and love her like she needed. Someone handsome. _Someone who doesn't look like you. _And he sure as hell wouldn't take her unwillingly. She was his little bird. He wouldn't rape her, any more than he would have let those peasant bastards rape her the day Myrcella sailed.

_Fucking seven hells, _he cursed. _She'll be the death of you, idiot. _

The Hound hadn't thought he had a heart. Not since Gregor pushed his face into the coals, and women shrank from his gaze, and whores charged him double. Not since he became a Lannister dog, fit only to be kicked and commanded. Wine and a good fuck were all he usually needed. But since he had met Sansa Stark, he found more and more that he was experiencing _feelings._ Fucking emotions. The last thing any dog needed.

He pushed himself away from the wall and headed to his quarters. Despite himself, his erection was pressing hard against his breeches at the memory of Sansa Stark touching him – willingly, touching his face. Never had a woman done that before. He closed the door to his room, and sank to the bed, grabbing a pitcher of wine from his table, downing the whole jug, and unlacing his breeches with the other hand.

As he took himself in his hand, he pictured her face, and the haze of the wine started to take over his thinking. Her beauty was truly unmatched, even by Cersei. He stroked himself, closing his eyes and remembering the scent of her perfume, and the gentle touch of her hand on his chin, and her eyes, her Tully eyes which he could just fall into and never think again.

"Fuck," he whispered, as he spilled his seed into his hand. Disgusted by his own weakness, he took up another flagon of wine. If he was damned enough to have feelings, he would drown them in his cups like any other reasonable man would do. Wine was the only thing that couldn't hurt him; the only thing he'd never lose. Wine and a sword should be all he ever needed, or wanted. _But they aren't, are they, dog? You want her. You'll never stop wanting her, because you love her. And she will never love you back._


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't know why he'd come here.

The fucking Imp had set the bay on fire. He was a good dog, a loyal Hound, and he would obey his masters, but not when it came to fire. He wouldn't walk into the flames for anyone – not for Joffrey, not for Cersei and certainly not for the fucking Halfman. They could all go to hell. That burning, flaming hell they'd created down by the walls.

So he'd run. He had backed away from the burning beach and retreated into the Keep, into his cups once more. Where had he run to? The little bird's room. He hadn't a fucking clue why.

Suddenly, a noise at the door startled him, and he shrank back into the shadows, lurking like the monster he was. Sansa ran into the room breathless, barring it behind her. She must have heard of Cersei's plans for her, then – for all the scared little hens in Maegor's – and was running from her fate, just like he was.

"Hound!" she cried, shocked to find him there. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm not here for long," he answered, taking another large gulp of wine. She looked terrified of him once again – he always managed to fuck it up. In his drunk mind, he hadn't realised that turning up unexpected and inebriated in her chambers would scare the shit out of her. _You're a stupid, useless brute, and you should leave her alone._

"Where are you going?" she asked tremulously, drawing closer to him.

"Somewhere that's not burning," he replied, and he could see in her face that she knew. She knew why he was leaving – he could see pity in her gaze. He didn't want pity. He spoke again. "North, might be. Could be."

She didn't respond, looking frozen and torn. She didn't know what she wanted, he could tell. He wanted her to trust him. To believe that he could protect her.

"Come with me," he suddenly urged, letting her know what he wanted. He stood up, walking towards her tentatively, but she didn't move away. "I'll keep you safe. Take you home. Do you want to go home?"

She didn't immediately respond, looking up at him with wide eyes. He could see trust in her eyes, and a desire to follow him – but she was afraid. She was afraid of his drunkenness and his bloodlust. And as he looked at her, his gray eyes boring into hers, he knew she could see his thinly veiled feelings towards her.

"You won't hurt me," she whispered.

"No, little bird, I won't hurt you," he replied. He was glad she could finally understand that, and that he hadn't had to express his feelings with words.

Nothing, though, could have prepared his drunken mind for what she did next.

She leaned upwards, and before he could move, pressed her perfect lips to his, wrapping her arms around his neck. He reacted instinctually, responding to her touch, taking her by her thin waist and pulling her body into his as he instantly hardened. Before it could get too far, though, he came to his senses and broke away from her, staggering back towards the wall.

"What the fuck just happened?" he asked, though he was speaking more to himself than her. He was reeling. _She _had initiated it. Did she think he was somebody else?

"I kissed you," she said defiantly. He met her gaze, and she looked slightly hurt that he had backed away. To hell with that.

"A reward for a gallant protector? Like you'd give to one of your fairytale knights?" he scoffed, trying to distance her, trying to make himself believe that that was why. He couldn't let himself think about the alternative, that she _wanted _him, because that was utter bollocks. Nobody could ever want a monster like him, let alone his little bird. "I've told you before, girl, I'm no knight and I don't want to be treated like one. Keep your damned kisses. You tempt a dog and he'll bite."

"Perhaps I want you to bite," she replied sternly, raising her eyes to lock with his. He could see the spirit of the wolf in her burning glare, fiery enough to consume him.

"You don't know what you're saying, little bird." The Hound's breeches were uncomfortably tight once more, and he knew they needed to get out of here and didn't have time to waste words on this nonsense. "Dogs don't know romance. They don't know love. All you'd get from me is a rough fuck. You don't want that."

"You're no dog," Sansa proclaimed, determined to win this battle. "I love you, Sandor Clegane, and I know you love me too. I know you want me."

_You've got no fucking idea how much I want you, little bird, _he thought. But he forced himself to scoff at her words. He wouldn't take the bait, because he knew she was emotional, and what she thought she felt wasn't true. It couldn't be true, nobody could ever love a brute like him. She was grateful for his protection, and that was all. "You don't know what love is. You're mistaking it for gratitude. And I don't want your fucking gratitude. I'm leaving. Are you coming with me?"

She didn't answer, looking hurt – she turned to pack up her things. Of course she was coming with him, he was her fucking protector, without him she'd be subject to Joffrey and his Kingsguard. _You're the worst of the lot, _he told himself, _the way you look at her. She's not safe with you._

Soon enough, she was ready. They hurried down and out of the Red Keep, the Hound gripping her arm and not allowing any time to speak. He untied and mounted Stranger, pulling her up beside him and the two of them rode into the night, away from the burning chaos of King's Landing.


	3. Chapter 3

It didn't take long to get away from the city. Not with Stranger's punishing pace. By dawn, they had gained enough of a lead to stop for a rest. Still unspeaking, the Hound pulled them off the road and dismounted his destrier in a small copse of trees, hidden from view. He tethered the horse and began to clear the ground for her.

Sansa said nothing, slipping off Stranger's back, careful to avoid his teeth, and settling herself down by the base of a tree, where he had scooped the leaves off the earth. The lightening dawn was on the horizon, and the Hound knew they had only a few hours to rest before they would need to be on the move again.

"Best get some sleep while you can, little bird," he said, as he pulled bedrolls out of the saddlebags and tossed one to her. "It'll be a long day's ride away from here."

He began to set up his own bedroll on the other side of the clearing, but Sansa interrupted him. "I would have you sleep beside me, ser."

"I'm no fucking ser, girl, and I don't care what you'd have me do," he growled, turning his back to her as he prepared his bedroll.

"As you like," she answered, though he could feel her putting her barriers back up. He'd pushed her too far away, and she would creep back inside her shell and become a little bird full of empty courtesies once more. He didn't want that. Begrudgingly, he dragged his bedroll across the clearing, closer to her but not directly beside her. He should place his sword between them, as a knight would do, but he spat on tradition and couldn't bring himself to participate in it even slightly.

Sansa noticed him close beside her and grinned. He hated that she had got her way, and what little pride he had was injured, but damn it, he had to give her what she wanted. She'd forced herself into his heart, such as it was, and though he wouldn't touch the little bird, he would damn well make her happy if he could. She was right, after all. He did love her.

_You stupid dog, _he chided himself. _You're pathetic. You don't deserve a highborn lady. And she doesn't deserve to be tied to the likes of you._

All thoughts in this vein disappeared as he felt her lightly wrap an arm over his waist, pulling herself into his muscled back. Her weight was tiny but noticeable, and he grunted angrily, shifting away from her. She didn't waste any time, though, in moving next to him again.

This invoked his wrath. He whipped around to face her. "What are you doing?"

She could see the rage in his face, he knew, and her eyes widened in fear. "I want to lie beside you. You're my protector."

"Seven fucking hells, girl, if you don't stop touching me I'll not be able to hold back," he warned venomously. "I know you think you want that, but believe me when I say you don't."

"How can you know what I want?" Sansa asked.

He laughed at that, a sharp, derisive bark. "I know what you want, girl. You want a strong knight to care for you and protect you. A gallant and honourable lord to sweep you off your silly little feet, just like in the songs. Well, I've told you before, I'm no fucking knight. I can keep you safe. I can kill, fuck and take orders. But that's all."

She made no reply, and he snorted contemptuously and turned back over, determined to get some sleep before they were to leave again. The silly little bird didn't take his warnings, though, and insisted on draping her arm over him once again. He growled and flipped her over, onto her back, careful not to hurt her but desperate to show her that she couldn't be so brazen.

She gasped as he rolled on top of her, pressing his hardness into her thigh. She was so delicate underneath him, he had to be careful not to crush her. "Is _this _what you had in mind, little bird?" he taunted, roughly moving his hips to grind into her. "Is this what you wanted?"

He was trying to frighten her, to push the boundaries of her innocence. He knew she had no idea what sex was about, and he didn't think she realised quite what a real man wanted. Her songs only spoke of kissing. Doubtless, this would scare her out of her misplaced 'love', and he could go back to being the unwanted, beaten dog that would defend her loyally and fuck his hand every night. She dropped her gaze, so he couldn't see her eyes, but he could tell that she was afraid.

"You won't hurt me," Sansa said. Stupid little bird, only repeating what he had told her so many times. "I know you won't dishonour me like this, Sandor Clegane."

He felt a shudder run through his body as he heard his name roll smoothly from her lips. Gods, how he wanted her, and she was helpless – he could take her right now and she wouldn't be able to stop him. There was nobody around to hear her screams. With every ounce of self-control he possessed, he pushed himself up and away from her, back onto his own bedroll.

"Don't trust me to stop again, little bird," he rasped. _Fuck knows how I stopped once._

She didn't move, or try to touch him again, and for that he was thankful. His erection was pressing so hard against his breeches that it was beginning to physically hurt – he didn't know if he could take any more of it. He didn't know why she even wanted to touch him in the first place. No other women ever had. He supposed it was some misplaced feeling of thankfulness which turned into a gruesome infatuation. It would pass soon enough, he hoped.

_Or what, dog? You'll have to actually open up and let her in? Feel something for once? You know you're not capable of that. Better to let her remain untouched, and she can find some lord to love._

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. They woke, and without speaking packed up their camp and rode away. Stranger was uncomplaining about the harsh pace he was forced to keep up, as eager to serve his master as the Hound was to get away. King's Landing receded into a blur behind them, and finally into nothing. They followed the road towards Riverrun, Clegane intending to return her to her mother and brother who were currently residing there. It wouldn't take long to reach it, not with Stranger's pace. Then, he could leave her with her family and – what? Remain with her as her sworn shield? He hadn't many other choices.

They set up camp late that night for the second time, and Sansa insisted on having their bedrolls beside each other again. The Hound grunted but made no other complaint. She did not try and touch him, and for that he was grateful – he didn't want another situation like the night before. His little bird was angry at him, and he didn't blame her. He had resorted to an extreme and nearly caused something catastrophic.

"I'm sorry, little bird," he whispered, not looking at her. "I shouldn't have done that last night."

"It's okay," she replied in her high, musical tone. "I pushed you too far. You did warn me that you'd bite. It was my fault for not heeding your advice."

"No," he found himself saying, "it was my fault for being the rough and filthy dog I am."

"You're no dog," she said firmly, and he finally rolled over to look at her, hardly seeing her beauty in the darkness. He hadn't lit a fire. He looked at her, his eyes adjusting, and thought she was the most breathtaking woman he had ever seen. _Get a hold of yourself, Clegane, _he thought angrily. _She's not for you. She never will be._

But oh, how he wished she was. That he could whisk her up and take her away, his beautiful little bird, and they could live off his tourney winnings, as man and wife, somewhere in the Free Cities, and someday have some Clegane pups to add to their happiness. But that was impossible – she was a Stark of Winterfell, and there were certain expectations of her. Especially whilst she still had her maidenhead – she would make a valuable alliance for her family.

The thought twisted painfully in his gut and made him prick with anger and jealousy. _Stop it, dog, _he thought, _you have no right to feel jealous. She doesn't even want you. Not really._

Suddenly, he felt a soft touch on the burned side of his face. She was stroking his cheek, willingly touching his scars, mapping them with her gentle fingers. Despite himself, he leaned into her touch, so desperate to prolong the feeling of being wanted, of being cared about. He was only a beaten dog, but even dogs need affection sometimes.

She continued to stroke his face, her other hand reaching up to his other cheek, gently tracing the stubble that had grown there. She was staring deep into his eyes, and he could see himself reflected in hers, his hideous scars and his stormy gray gaze. The gods only knew what she saw in him, why she wanted to be near him.

"What are you doing, little bird?" he finally asked, his voice low.

"You don't scare me any more, Sandor," she replied. "I wasted so much time being afraid that I was blind to it. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros and Ser Gregor–" he stiffened at the mention of his brother, but did not interrupt "–they are knights like the ones in my songs. None of them have any honour. All of them would beat me or rape me without a second thought. You, who scorn knighthood, and scorn beauty, have never lied to me or hurt me. You never would – you never will."

"I told you once before," he mumbled, "a hound will die for you, but never lie to you."

"And I know that now," she murmured. "I know _Sandor. _And I love him."

"No you don't, little bird." He was trying so hard, so hard to keep away from her, why was she making it so difficult? "Nobody could ever love this." He gestured at his scars.

In reply, before he could stop her, she leaned forward and kissed his burns, lingering on the skin. Though he could hardly feel her touch through the scar tissue, it made his heart jump. She continued, blazing a trail down to his ruined lips, and he could only exhale in pleasure as she touched her lips to his. This time, it was more than a stolen kiss in a drunken haze while fire burned in the sky. It was firmer, needier, more passionate. She was trying to show him.

"What do you want from me, Sansa?" the Hound asked, weakened by her touch, his iron walls falling away.

"I want _you_, Sandor," she replied. "Everything that you are. Let me in. Let me love you."

_Seven fucking hells, I'm going to regret this._

He reached up, stroking her locks of auburn hair, and leaned in to kiss her again.


	4. Chapter 4

Since that night, there had been no more doubt. The look in her eyes – the gods only knew how, or why this had happened – but he was sure it was there. Desire. She did want him. He didn't think she loved him, not yet. She didn't understand the notion of love, yet. But it was certainly a foundation.

He didn't quite know what to do with it. To be sure, he wanted to keep her. She was his little bird, and he was her faithful Hound; he always would be. She, though, was supposed to be married off to a lordling, or a landed knight. Her family would never accept a marriage to a Clegane, and the younger brother to boot. He would own nothing while Gregor was alive, and even if his brother should die, he would only be the master of a tiny keep deep in Lannister territory. He could not possibly be what Robb and Catelyn Stark had in mind for her.

And they would arrive at Riverrun tomorrow. What would he do? What could he do, other than stand silently and watch as his little bird was handed over to her family, and he was left to stand in the shadows, his heart breaking. This was why he didn't like emotions. They had a way of fucking you over in the worst way possible. He needed a wineskin.

Sansa sensed his unease. "What's wrong?"

He grunted. She didn't need to share his troubles, or know how deeply he really felt for her. It would only make it harder on her when the time came for her to marry someone else.

Suddenly, a noise sounded before them on the road. Sandor kicked Stranger, steering him off the road and putting a finger to his lips in warning. She nodded. They waited on the verge at the edge of the path, hidden from view.

Two horsemen appeared over the crest of the ridge. They were talking between themselves, oblivious of anyone overhearing them on this deserted stretch of road. "The Red Wedding, they're calling it," one said.

"Sounds about right," the other replied. "I heard they killed the boy's wolf and sewed its head onto his body."

The Hound grabbed Sansa's arm. He knew only Stark boys owned wolves. This could not be good news for her.

"Yeah, and they slit Catelyn Stark's throat. Wife of a traitor, mother of a betrayer."

"They should have known never to cross Walder Frey. That man's a dangerous enemy."

They passed, and their voices faded slowly into silence. Slowly, Sandor released his grip on her arm, worried that she might try to run after them. She didn't, though – she seemed to be in shock, not moving or talking. "Little bird?" he asked tentatively, and she turned her blue eyes towards him. Tears were flowing silently down her cheeks.

He gathered her in his arms, not wanting to see her cry. He didn't care about propriety, or about keeping his distance; right now she needed comfort and he would be damned if he wasn't going to give it to her. She sobbed freely now, leaning into his chest and wrapping her arms around his neck, hiding her face away. He held her, rocking back and forth slowly, not knowing what to say or do. He wasn't built to give comfort.

She cried for a long time. She wasn't just crying for her mother and brother, he supposed, but for her father, her lost sister, her lost home and her lost dreams. She had come to King's Landing a naïve young girl with a head full of songs and a heart full of joy, and she had had her fantasies cruelly crushed by Joffrey, Cersei, the pretenders in the Kingsguard – and himself. He had never encouraged her to dream, only told her the hard honest truth.

Eventually, he knew it had to stop; dusk was fast approaching and they needed a plan. It was clear they could no longer go to Riverrun – it was not safe for her to be in the public eye, now that the Freys were her enemies too. They could go across the Narrow Sea, to one of the Free Cities, or north to the Night's Watch. He seemed to recall Ned Stark's bastard had taken the black, perhaps he would provide protection for her. They could not risk Winterfell, not yet.

"Sansa," he said, gently prising her from his body, "you need to pull it together. We can't stay here forever."

"I know," she said, wiping her eyes and taking a breath. "I'll be okay. Where are we heading?"

"You can choose, little bird," he replied. "I promised to keep you safe. We'll go where you want to go."

"I want to go home," she whispered.

"That's not possible," he answered brusquely, trying not to sound too harsh. Sometimes she could be a stupid little bird.

"I know it's not. Not right now. Let's go somewhere away from Westeros, and wait," she decided. "Wait until Joffrey is dead, and the War of the Five Kings is over, and I can return to Winterfell."

"That's doable," Sandor replied. "Get on Stranger, then, little bird. We'll head to Maidenpool."

She walked up to him, and he felt the atmosphere change between them. He didn't move as she reached him and brushed her hands across his chest, and round his chin, fingering his burned and scarred cheek. "Thank you, Sandor," she said. "I knew you'd look after me."

"Always, Sansa," he responded, and was not surprised when she stood on tiptoe to kiss him. He allowed her to, leaning down to meet her and brushing her lips fervently. She wanted more, though, this time – she ran her tongue across his lower lip, and he opened his mouth in surprise, as she slipped her small and delicate tongue into the gap. He kissed her fiercely after that, trying to comfort her, trying to show her how much she meant to him; trying to tell her he loved her, without the words to say it.

It was when he felt himself hardening again that he was forced to pull away. "Come on, little bird," he said, lifting her up gently and placing her on Stranger himself. She looked extremely tired, and he resolved to let her sleep in the saddle. "Let's get back on the road."


	5. Chapter 5

It hadn't taken long to reach Maidenpool. The importance of their flight had taken a fresh urgency when they had discovered Lannister bannermen looking for Sansa. The Hound had killed them all, without questions, as Sansa hid her eyes from the bloodshed. After that they stuck to the wilderness, unwilling to take the roads when danger could be anywhere. They had therefore taken a direct route to Maidenpool, travelling as the crow flies, and reached the port town in under a week.

Sandor had over forty thousand gold dragons from winning the Tourney of the Hand, and so money was not going to be a problem. He paid for fast passage to Braavos on a luxury ship. It would be three days' travel aboard the ship, the grizzled old sea-captain informed him as he counted out the coins greedily. The Hound insisted that Stranger travel with them, and the captain looked doubtfully at the black warhorse before turning his gaze to the coins in his hand, before finally nodding.

So it was that they found themselves in the cabin of a rolling boat in the churning waters of the Narrow Sea. The rain fell in sheets, pattering onto the deck around them and casting a gloomy fog about them, rendering the sky dark. The Hound had found his wine again, and was indulging himself in the taste of Dornish red – he heard Sansa sigh and turn away from the window. Obviously she could see nothing through it, though he had told her that would be the case.

"May I have some of that?" she asked, indicating his wine.

He chuckled. "If you want it, little bird," he said, offering her the cup. She took it and cautiously took a sip, making a face.

"It's too strong for my tastes," she commented, sitting back down on the bed.

"You don't drink it for the flavour," Sandor replied mockingly. "You drink it to forget."

"What do you want to forget?" she asked, and he could tell that she wanted to know more about him. _Well, if she's going to be stuck with you for the next few years, she'll want to know what kind of a dog she's brought with her._

"Everything," he rasped, with a barked laugh. "My brother's wrath when he found me with his toy. The pain when he forced my head into the flames. The scars on my face. My life as nothing but a Lannister dog. The looks I get in the streets and in the whorehouses. The names they call me. The faces of the men I've killed. The wildfire burning on the bay the night of Blackwater."

_Don't say it, dog, _he told himself. _Don't add that last bit._

"The desire that fills me every time you come close, the desire to take you as my own," he said, the words slipping drunkenly from between his lips before he could stop them.

_Fuck._

She looked shocked, her eyes widening in what he supposed was fear, or horror – rightly so. _See? She never wanted a dog like you. Not when it comes down to the cold, hard truth._

"Tell me about King's Landing," she said, struggling to keep her voice level. "Tell me honestly."

"I've never lied to you before," the Hound replied. _You've gone and fucked it up again anyway, you might as well tell her the whole truth before she leaves you forever._

"Why did you protect me from Joff, when none of the others did? You've said you have no honour, so why waste your time on a stupid little bird like me?" she asked, her eyes never leaving his.

"Because I wanted to fuck you, girl," he rasped, gulping down more wine. She looked taken aback at his roughness. "What, you expected flowered words? Dogs don't do fancy wordplay. I get straight to the point. Joffrey is a fool who never deserved you. There was nothing I could do about that – but I didn't feel you deserved to be beaten. Why not? Because you're fucking _beautiful _and I wanted nothing more than to stick my cock in you."

He paused to take in her reaction, but her expression was guarded. He barked out a laugh and continued.

"I wouldn't, of course. You were promised to the king, and I preferred my head attached to my shoulders. And I knew you'd never take me willingly. I didn't want to take you forcibly, it didn't seem right. Why not?" He shrugged. "I don't know. There's just something about you that stopped me. Fuck knows what it was."

She still didn't speak.

"You happy now, girl?" he asked, mockingly. "Now that your Hound has barked out his secrets?"

She shook her head mutely.

"What, then? What do you want from me?" _Look what you've done now. Stupid mutt._

"I want you to love me, Sandor Clegane. Love me like I love you," she replied. "You're rude, and you're unkind, and you tell me harsh truths. And your face is burned. But I love you for all those things, and more, because nobody has ever treated me like a woman before. You show me what the world is really like, instead of veiling it with songs and velvet lies. That's what I want, it's what I need. You're no dog, you're a man, and I'm not a bird but a woman. I wish you'd see that."

He was reeling. _Fuck, _he thought, _she actually wants me. Me! _It wasn't right, he knew that, and she didn't deserve to be stuck with him, but gods be damned, he _needed_ her. He would have her and the consequences could go fuck themselves.

"You're no bird," he agreed, standing up and walking towards her. "You're a fucking wolf."

She grinned up at him, not even flinching at his use of language. He dropped the wine on the floor and took her in his arms, lying her back onto the bed, and crawling atop her, careful not to put any weight on her delicate body. He stared at her fiercely, looking into her eyes, making sure she wanted this, because he knew that once he started nothing in all of Westeros could make him stop. She stared him down defiantly, the spirit of a wolf rising in her, and he could see desire in her eyes, arousal at his scent and his touch, and a glimmer of something else, some deep emotion he had never seen before. Not directed at him, anyway.

Love.

_Fucking hell, _he thought, _I don't know what I've done to deserve her but to hell am I letting her go._

Slowly, he leaned down into her face, kissing her deeply, possessively. She returned the gesture, pushing her mouth against his passionately, almost desperate to feel more of him. Their tongues battled for dominance as he ran his hands along her curves. _Gods, she's perfect._

He wanted to be slow, and loving, and careful; it was her first time, after all. But once they were undressed, and she was naked below him, baring herself for him, wet for his touch, he could hold himself back no longer. He was a dog, and he would fuck like one.

He growled as he took one of her breasts in his mouth, rolling his tongue across her perfect pink teat. She moaned in pleasure, and then gasped. "I'm sorry!"

"What for, little bird? You're supposed to make those sounds," he grinned.

She nodded, closing her mouth again and raising her hands to run through his tattered hair, which only spurred him onwards, pinching her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger as he explored her body with his other hand. She was writhing under his touch – he had never known a woman to _enjoy _his ministrations before now. The thought made him determined to make her come.

Reluctantly releasing her breast from his mouth, he trailed a blaze of kisses down her belly, towards her sweet wet cunt. He could smell her arousal, it was coming off her in waves. Still amazed that simply his touch could provoke such reactions, he moved both hands to cup her breasts gently, squeezing them, weighing them, and brought his mouth down to her slit, licking it slowly, lapping up her juices. It was something dogs did best.

"Sandor!" she cried as she felt his tongue touch her, and the sound of his name made him grin against her. He would make sure she enjoyed this. He dove into her with his tongue, pushing in and out of her passage eagerly, eliciting moans and jerks of pleasure. He grabbed her hips, holding her still and viciously lapped at her cunt, his large tongue sweeping across the most pleasurable area and making her squeal in delight. Soon, he felt her shudder, and a fresh wave of fluid washed over his tongue. He lapped it up, allowing her to ride out her orgasm.

"Did you enjoy that, little bird?" he asked, licking his lips. She tasted delicious.

"Oh, Sandor," she gasped, raising a hand to his face, cupping his cheek. "Make me yours."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "Once it's done, it can never be undone." _Don't give her the choice, fool, just take her like the dog you are._

"I'm sure. I never want another man. I will be yours forever," she promised.

"Silly little bird," he chided. "Pledging yourself to a mutt like me. I'm no good for you."

He did not wait any longer, though, his pressing need clouding his thinking. He laid atop her and pushed against her entrance, which was now slick with his saliva and her juices, enough for him to slide in easily. It was still tight, and he pushed hard against her maidenhead with one long thrust, as she cried out in pain and clung to him.

He waited for her to relax, though his every instinct was telling him to pound into her ferociously. When she nodded and laid her head on the pillows, he didn't hold back. Capturing her mouth in a kiss, he started at a fast, brutal pace, thoroughly fucking her as he had imagined so many times when he was alone in his room in King's Landing with nothing but his hand.

She seemed to be enjoying it, though, and that was something he had never envisioned. She was calling out his name, muttering nonsense under her breath, crying out for the Seven as he reached between them and began to rub her.

He tried to last longer, tried to force himself to think of something, anything other than the girl below him, his little bird, wanting him, moaning for him, her cunt willing and wet. He felt it coming, though, and began to pull out to spill his seed on the floor, but she took his face in her hands and kissed him and _fuck it, she'll always be mine_ – he came inside her with a deep, inhuman growl and a shudder that racked his whole body.

"Sansa," he whispered, reaching for her hand.

"Sandor," she replied, utterly fulfilled, taking his fingers and lacing them with hers. "I love you."

_Fucking seven hells, just say it. It can't do any harm. Not any more. She's yours._

"I love you too, little bird," he said throatily, before pulling out of her and collapsing on the bed beside her. She curled into him, and they spoke no more that night, glowing in the aftermath and exhausted into sleep.


End file.
